


Morning Moon

by Zvyozdochka (OfCloudlessClimes)



Category: Peacemaker Kurogane
Genre: M/M, Tragedy, as usual i don't know what i'm doing, pairing implied, this fic is 10 years old and only now am I putting it out there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 20:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10048928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfCloudlessClimes/pseuds/Zvyozdochka
Summary: The calm before the end. Inspired by an instrumental piece of the same name.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It would probably help to listen to this song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5o8jIw97Bc) before or while reading because this was pretty much what I based it on. I'm really sorry.

The moon sits patiently in the sky, its light undaunted by the passing of transient clouds. Beneath, around, and over it, the stars look on, their glimmer dim and murky veiled with veneration while the quiet of the night wheels forward towards the hour of a new day.

A lazy breeze rolls past the quiet compound ruffling feathers and mists of birds and sleep, and one gentle soul welcomes its touch more than any other's: a rare privilege, for he will not let anything or anyone else touch him save for the silk on his back and the tears that adamantly fall. This heavy wakefulness is brought on by the ache in his limbs and chest, and yet he keeps vigil, waiting for the one whom he knows deep in his child-like heart will not come.

"Wait for me," he had promised around a mouthful of labored breaths while struggling to look as pretty as the tsubaki outside his window. "I will still see you in the morning."

But the promise is given too late, and the morning that will come is not meant to see him anymore.

A name flows out of him on instinct, one that has been his sole anchor through wave upon wave of endless, breathless days. When no reassuring timbre answers back, he knows that he has finally been set adrift on the gray sea of past memories. He wonders if, had the wind not taken his words to recede into the galley of deaf stars above, could he have retracted them and kept them warm inside his body instead?

A palm unfurls to entice the moon to touch it, but his grasp is already too weak when it spills into his hand. Another tear is shed, another breath interrupted, another memory to reminisce. Then, finally, he decides not to wait any more for he is not one to linger on hopeless things. Soon, the moon--sensing a coldness not her own--releases her silvery hold, and all is quiet again.

From the reeds, a small star emerges and flutters through the open shoji, finding its perch on powder-pale fingers. Its glow, a flickering needlepoint of forgotten happiness, casts evanescent pools of light and shadow across equally powder-pale callouses. But the damp violet gaze looking at it cannot see it anymore. It does not see the passing of an unexpected drizzle, the cat he had made peace with looking on, or his little star chasing after the name he had uttered that was stolen away by the wind.

The night is still and so is he. There will be no morning to greet him.


End file.
